


Worship

by And_all_the_other_buns



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Dom/sub Play, M/M, Religion, Religious Content, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23269027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/And_all_the_other_buns/pseuds/And_all_the_other_buns
Summary: Caught up in churchbells, Armand is struck with a desire to hear mass; Marius offers him other ways to worship.Modern setting.
Relationships: Armand/Marius de Romanus
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	Worship

Bells rang out across the cool night. Not proper churchbells, these were mechanical, music box chimes, not unlike the melody that a grandfather clock would play on the hour. They sang out from St. Augustine Catholic Church, just a block from the apartment he currently, tentatively, called home. Out on the balcony, Armand let the bells wash over him, calling in stragglers for Saturday night mass. The sun had set, so in the old tradition, one could fill their Sabbath obligation between now and nightfall on Sunday. 

Had this been so in his village? He couldn't remember the old Orthodox way. Though prayers still sang through his mind in Russian, the scent of incense and wax as real to him as the cologne that clung to his neck, he couldn't remember if he had ever taken communion on a Saturday evening. Perhaps this was a Roman invention entirely?

"Aren't you cold, Amadeo?"

He had heard Master rise some time ago, heard him brush out his smooth, blonde hair and dress for the night, and now he stood at the glass doors behind him, only a shadow to Armand spilling from the amber light of their living room.

"...I think I should like to hear mass."

"...hardly an answer to my query," Marius answered tersely, and he was at Armand's side, standing where Armand sat, arms crossed on the balcony as he surveyed the lights below them. 

"I'm not cold," he amended uncaringly, though goosebumps covered his forearms where his thin shirt slid up. "There's a beautiful church, you can see the steeple from here, and they hold an evening mass-"

"I'm sure it's a lovely piece of architecture, Amadeo, which you can appreciate from afar."

So early in the night for his maker to take that tone, too early for Armand to have decided which part he wanted to play that night. So often called the little imp, he thought it a poor comparison to his wild mood swings, so easily going from heart-eater to pleading schoolboy. Lestat called him their little sociopath, but that word applied only colloquially. Other phrases seemed more likely, words found in books of psychiatry, but he found little use in labeling. He was Armand, his master's Amadeo, as likely to keen under a sweet bit of praise as he was to, as the phrase went, go ape-shit.

"If I want to attend mass, I shall," he said simply, keeping his eyes fixed on the steeple, it's white cross lit from lights below. 

At his side, Marius huffed, and from his periphery Armand saw his snowy blond hair tussling in the light wind. When he said nothing, though, Armand pressed on.

"I could go now, even. I'm sure they're still in procession, bringing the holy word forward, the incense lit-"

"You'll have to look hard to find a church that burns incense at a vigil mass," Marius said simply, his voice as cool as the night air. "It's not like your village church now, Amadeo, or like mass when you were still skulking around boneyards. The papists say mass in English now, they take communion on the hand, don't even kneel."

"You seem well versed in modern Christian worship, Master," he remarked, his tongue taking just the first hint of venom, which Marius dutifully ignored.

"I find churches to be beautiful places," he conceded. "How could I not, living as I did among the basilica's, the grand Gothic cathedrals, the dome on the rock? But my Amadeo, haven't you come to know by now their beauty is a hollow one?"

Armand said nothing. A lock of his thick, auburn hair tumbled from behind his ear, the coil tickling his cheek. Hollow beauty indeed. Marius would never understand the hours spent knelt before the Tabernacle, or in prayerful silence before the Lady, before icons of the martys, each face with a story he had learned as Andrei, sat on his mother's knee. Peter and Gabriel and Justin, Perpetua and Catherine and Francis. A litany of family to hear his calls into the darkness -

/But who was it who finally answered your cries?/

Well, not the Christ, that was certain.

Below them the city blazed with sound and light, honks and tires screeching as someone made a poor choice through an intersection.

"...I think it would be peaceful at least, to light a candle at the shrine," he said finally, unable to let this go.

"Yes, but would it stop there, child?" Marius wanted to know. "I doubt it would. In fact I know it wouldn't. As soon as you step into the sanctuary you'd be under that spell again."

"You make me sound like an addict," he said, all but sulking, trying to not imagine the glee his fledgling would have upon seeing this temper. "Votive candles as gateway drug!"

"And for you they very well would be," said Marius firmly, turning finally to face Armand with hard eyes. "You know yourself, Amadeo, given to passions of the spirit as easily as you are to passions of the flesh. For you, holy water is all but an aphrodisiac, and chrism oil an elixir."

A sire should not be able to see so readily into his fledglings soul, thought Armand, winding back a wayward curl. It was a true injustice that his maker was one wise enough and astute enough to read into his every glare and flicker what other vampires could read straight from his mind. It made him feel nearly as vulnerable as he did tied four-point to their bed. Nearly.

Spurred on by his child's silence, Marius pressed on.

"I mean it, young one. The last time you went into a religious fervor you tried to burn yourself alive beneath the sun, have you forgotten already? And before that you crawled around in the dirt like some little vermin. I won't have that from you again, Amadeo. I am far past the days of tending your fevers in church and sending you to sleep with philosophies of your Christ; I won't allow you to indulge in those fairy tales."

His mood swings were virulent enough when one came and dragged him after another; they were nearly impossible to bear when they flooded his heart at once. There was an instant desire to be contrary for contrarys own sake, to snarl at his Master that he was able to decide for himself his manner of worship. Just as quickly came the indignity of the scolding, but at the same time those words broiled in him a deep pleasure, carrying a promise of praise. Obey, said something deep within his heart. Be a good boy for Master, let him shower you in kisses and praise, while an equal voice hissed at him to start a fight, to either send Master away or earn a bloodied beating. Both were valid options for the night 

In the end, he did none of those things, and instead just arched his back further, arms folded across the balcony, and longed silently for the sanctuary. The church wasn't so modern as to be ugly. Vatican I, at least, with lovely stained glass. Inside there would be an altar for the host and the wine, the body and the blood. A priest in vestiments for Lent, books opened to a hymn. The ritual called to him, kneeling for prayer, for the consecration, the procession to the front, hands joined to call upon the Lord Christ ...why did a blackened part of his being still long for his Jesus, for the god who never came? Who abandoned his faithful son to the brothels so many centuries ago?

"Amadeo."

Master could command so much into so few sounds. A name short on letters but of many sounds, each syllable holding within it the warnings of his Maker. The 21st century was no different than the 15th. Marius wanted obedience, he expected it, demanded it from his child lover, and so desperately Armand longed to give it to him, sometimes succeeding. Other times, his baser rages took hold, his insolence, the part of him that knew himself to be a man capable of great deeds and greater sins.

"Amadeo, heed me. Should I find you prowling about a church, I will bring you to the main house and beat you to a desperate point before the entire coven, and your own fledgling can see how virulent you are. I'll find a way to leave marks on your immortal skin. Am I understood?"

"I pay the rent on this penthouse, Master," he said to the chilled spring air, letting his lashes flutter over his cheeks, his lips in a pout. He had long, long ago become aware of his own beauty and perfected every glance and gleam and turn to make that beauty shine in a way even the most dedicated man to morality could not refuse.

"And yet still you call me Master."

"I am beaten when I call you Marius."

"You are, but you come back to me each time."

Words came unbidden, flowing like scalding water through his chest, words gathered up through the years and bundled together from movies and television and the mouths of the coven. Desire, submission, abuse, sadism, passion, control, battery, pedophilia, masochism, devotion, love. The names of syndromes and personality disorders proposed to explain why Armand went into such rages, broken by bouts of piety and sweet pleading, a looping cycle of I hate you, I'll kill you, I adore you, sweet Master.

Nonsense words like nursery rhymes. Who dares to psychoanalyze the brain frozen eternally at the edge of adolescence? And Master called his rosaries a folly!

Armand shivered, the cold spring wind bringing a damp chill over his exposed skin.

"I leave because you anger me, I return because I love you despite it."

Marius nodded sagely, sharing Armand's view of the city.

"And I love you, Amadeo, this you know. I have loved you since the moment I gathered you into my arms at the brothel."

Armand felt his throat tighten; he would never erase from his mind how warm Marius felt as he took him onto his hip- how cold must Armand have been, for the ancient one to feel warm? His savior, his Messiah, golden haired and stoic, but a softness at his eyes, how he longed to be on his lap again, arms wound around his neck as though he were still Andrei, malnourished and frail, and not Armand, well fed and contented with wine, with shapely legs and steady hands, a softness to his belly and strength to his arms. Master's hold would always make him feel sinfully petite and dangerously weak, because no matter how old Armand got, Master grew older still.

Another shiver, the night air feeling even colder now compared to the warmth growing in his middle.

"...come inside."

"Why? I can't catch a fever from the cold, Master. I'm fine."

"You're uncomfortable," Marius observed simply, "and you're no longer a graveyard penitent. I raised you to languish in the pleasures of the world, to appreciate and savor every comfort, not to commit yourself to a life of self flaggelation."

"Oh, indeed, if I am to suffer beneath the crop it is by your hands?"

"Do you hate it?'

God, no, just the sound of the leather creaking beneath Master's grip could have him aching; just the thought of the sound -!

"You're just trying to distract me from churchbells," Armand accused, though already their ringing seemed faint and distant, already a memory.

Behind him, nearing the door, Marius huffed, and Armand could hear the faintest idea of a smile on his voice.

"If you want so badly to worship, Amadeo, I can provide for you an altar."

Surely what he had in mind involved no incense or holy icons; candles, however, could be fair game.

He didn't reply, but he knew Master could read in his body what his mouth would not say, could process every muscle coiling, every change to his breath, and the bastard, Armand knew he took great joy in this knowledge. 

"Come inside, young one," he said again, and though his tone was mild, Armand knew a command when he heard it. In Italy, denial of an order meant a tongue lashing at best or a beating at worst. Amadeo would push Master to his limit just for the attention...and honestly despite his best desires he knew Armand was not far removed.

Without shame, Armand rose from his chair, turning his head to peer almost shyly through his loose, thick curls, and there Master stood, one arm holding open the French doors to his suite, the other held out in invitation. How badly he longed to step forward, to ease into Master's arms and let him take away his worries. But Armand's heart was erratic and often contrary, and he did exactly the opposite. Rather than running to the safety of Master's hold, he backed up, slowly, pressing himself to the balcony railing. Small as he was, it hit just below his shoulder blades, cold wrought iron leeching his warmth through his shirt. Carefully he measured Master's reaction, and found his gaze steady and unphased.

"...unruly as always, Amadeo?" He asked quietly, and Armand just tipped his chin up, shaking his short mane of russet curls over his collar. He wanted his look to be darnig and defiant, challenging.

He knew Marius was no idiot. He surely knew exactly the game Armand was begging to play. And indeed with pleasure and exhiliration he watched the gentle changes in Marius's face, going from contemplating to angry to bemused.

"...Amadeo, I gave you an order did I not?" He asked in a calm, low voice, and Amadeo watched his posture straighten and his shoulders square, making his already chiseled form all the more imposing, all the more desirable to the immortal child before him. "Come back inside now."

"Fuck you," Armand all but spit back, straddling as always between them the line between true anger and play. How could Marius be expected to know the difference when Armand rarely knew? "I told you, I pay for this place myself. You're a guest in my house!"

"And rules of hospitality say you ought to be offering me only the best. Now, little host, what have you to satiate me?"

Armand felt the pang of hunger blossom through him, desire lighting deep in his belly, but he only let it fuel his tirade. Or his performance. One and the same, really. He followed the railing sidelong, keeping his eyes on Marius as he slipped further away from him on the balcony.

"Why should I service you who wants to keep me in chains?"

"Because you love them, and you come to me asking them to be locked tight."

God help him he did, and he sighed quietly, knowing Master heard it. He could see the small twitch of his pale lips.

Soundlessly Master stepped forward, slow and almost lazy steps, and Armand scrambled to put more space between them, quickly finding his route limited.

"Honestly, young one, nobody knows you like your maker," he said, taking another step forward as Armand found himself pressed into the corner, nowhere to go. Grabbing hold of the railing, he looked over his shoulder; they were 20 stories up. The fall wouldn't kill him of course, but he'd be mangled enough to make a scene, and the last thing he wanted was an ambulance called. Besides, Marius had the gift of flight, and could surely catch him well before he hit the ground.

Turning his brown eyes forward again, his heart leapt to find Marius only an arms length away, his long blonde hair trailing in the chilled wind. How amused he looked, blue eyes alight as though in the thrill of the hunt. And really, he was.

"Child, if you obey me now and go inside, I'll whip you to a count of 10. If I have to tell you again, it will be twenty."

So Armand did the only sensible thing; he drew his shoulders back and spit right in his face 

And Marius, of course, did the only sensible thing in return once he calmly wiped himself clean; raised his right hand to strike Armand sharply across his round cheek. His whole upper body followed the blow, curls whipping into his face and the sting lasting far longer than any red mark would have on his immortal skin.

"Now, Amadeo. Are you ready to behave?"

Risen Christ of course he was. Desperately, painfully, he wanted to submit, to lie back and bare his throat and let Master pull the blood from his heart.

But that wasn't how he played the game.

Instead, he coiled himself tight, and made the quickest sprint he could for the door, knowing from the first moment that he would be caught and both knowing he wanted to be caught. In true cat and mouse fashion, though, Master toyed with him, Master let his feet carry him through their bedroom, out through the hall, to the glass walled living room and nearly to the door before he stopped him. Armand felt his breath leave him as Master's arms encircled his waist, lifting him with no effort at all over his shoulder. 

"Let me go!" He cried, thrashing about, flailing his legs and trying to cause some mayhem with his stocking feet, but even at his strongest he could counter Marius in no way. He was his superior in every aspect, which he proved with his unflinching stride.

"Such a petulant child I have raised," he said direly, but Armand knew a smile played just behind the bitter scolding. 

Into their bedroom he took Armand, casting him down onto the chenille bedspread without any preamble. Disoriented and breathless, Armand struggled to right himself, and watched as Marius locked first the bedroom doors, and then the French doors to the balcony, pulling the damask drapes closed to enclose them in a private sanctuary.

All that could be heard was the sound of Armand's desperate breathing; Marius's footsteps surely made no noise. 

"Well, child, you've told me off, spit in my face, and tried to run from me. Would you like to explain your behavior? Need I go out and hunt for your supper, cranky little fledgling?"

Yes please take me under your cloak and direct me, find for me a mortal and wipe the blood from my chin after -

"I don't need you preening around for me like a peacock looking for a mate!"

"Tell me you don't love it."

"I don't!"

"I don't abide lying, little boy."

Armand knew something was broken within him to warm at such words. When had it happened? On the ship to Italy? In Master's bath? His centuries begging reconciliation in Paris? 500 years is a long time to become damaged.

And god he loved it.

Marius came closer to the bed, and Armand watched with rapt attention as he reached for his waist, undoing the buckle to his own belt. The metal clink, the shush of leather against wool, and Armand had to bite back a groan. He knew Master could hear his heartbeat.

"Strip, Amadeo."

And Amadeo sat still, legs curled beneath him and eyes wide, hesitant and wanting but unable to move.

Master doubled the belt over in his hand, mercifully holding the metal buckle in his palm.

"Amadeo. I gave you an order."

That voice would absolutely take him apart. Shaking, he raised himself to his knees on the bed, pulling his shirt up enough to get to the waistband of his black jeans. Undoing the zipper, he hooked his thumbs into his jeans and boxers, tugging them down at the same time. He let his shirt slip down as he did so, covering his shame and giving some illusion that Armand had a sense of modesty. Head down, he settled, pulling his clothes off his legs, round thighs down to well shaped calves and narrow ankles, a light dusting of red hair below his knees.

Master all but growled at him, and Armand steadied himself, looking straight up at him as defiant as one could be half naked. He was rewarded with a pleased and indulgent smile from his Master.

"Good boy, Amadeo," he murmured, Armand sure he could feel the burn of tears behind his eyes at such a small joy. "Now stand up. You may kneel over the settee or stand palms flat against the wall."

Armand hesitated, looking between the two, but ultimately stepped forward, past Marius, and faced the steel grey wall, leaning forward. He knew this well; feet shoulder width apart, slightly behind his hips, arms out straight to brace himself. In such a position, his shirt rode up easily, exposing the full circle of his ass and thighs for whatever Master planned to do. In front, it barely hid his raging erection, hot and throbbing, his arousal heavy in the air. There was no hiding it from his Master.

"There's my darling boy again," he cood, and Armand just set his jaw, trying to not tense up; it hurt worse if he tried to fight against the blows; he'd learned that centuries past.

"Thirty strikes, Amadeo," Master said softly, sounding almost mournful. The boy swallowed thickly, and nodded his head, before setting his eyes resolutely on the blank wall before him.

The first strike was unsettlingly light, just a sting across his mid thigh, but Amadeo was no fool, and would not be lulled into a false sense of security. Indeed, just seconds later came a much sharper blow, higher, onto the warm and tender skin just below his ass. Was he supposed to count them? That wasn't Master's usual pattern but it was also not unheard of. He was known for both habits and creativity; he landed several more one after another though, without asking for a tally, so Amadeo had to assume his job was only to withstand the beating.

He could do that. He was good at that. At least at first. He must have been 10 or 12 lashes in before he finally let out a soft cry, immediately clenching his jaw against another. Behind him he could hear Master's stance adjust, and he startled at feeling a cool hand on his tense shoulder. He was not there to comfort him, though; rather he was just getting a better leverage. The next strike landed straight across his ass, and he bucked forward, simultaneously letting out a choked scream and feeling a bead begin to drop down his cock. And Master knew, of course he knew, Master knew Amadeo's body as though he had sculpted it himself from the finest stone, crafting every vein and and soft curve and ridge of muscle.

Several more swats landed hard across his ass, and he grit his teeth against the growing pain, his thighs beggining to shake slightly at the effort to remain upright. How many left? He hadn't counted why hadn't he counted? He groaned as another struck right atop the last, and screamed as a third finally brought the smell of his own blood into the room. Amadeo began to crumple then, his knees buckleing and the instinct strong to protect himself but Master wouldn't abide it. He gripped him beneath the arm and pulled him back upright, cooly making sure he held his grip to the wall, and began anew.

4, 5, 6 more lashes from Master's belt, each across raw skin struggling to heal, each one bringing forth sunlight from his skin, burning and taboo but so desirable, before he finally heard the item of his punishment drop to the floor. Amadeo followed, crying as his thighs and ass pressed against his calves. Immediately he bent forward, relieving the burning pressure, not caring about the display such a position would give. Ready to mount, he surely looked, and a desperate and humiliated part of him hoped to hear Master's trousers being unbound, feel his thick cock pressing to his entrance.

Instead, he felt the smooth coldness of Master's hands, gently rubbing over the worst of his swollen welts, and Amadeo let out a breathy gasp, the relief immediate. For a moment he worried Master would remove this comfort once he knew how desperately Amadeo wanted it, but he stayed for several moments, massaging even over his hips and lower back, till the 3 split wounds closed and the lighter marks were nearly gone. Only then did he pull away, and pick up his belt, standing to slip it back on.

"Well, Amadeo?" He promted over the clacking of his buckle. "Do you still wish to attend mass and worship?"

Amadeo groaned softly, the very idea now filling him with mournful sorrow, and he shook out his blood-sweat curls. He couldn't find his voice for a verbal reply but that was fine, that was no need. Instead he drug his sore body to the side, towards where Master stood. Bracing his hands on the dark carpet, he lowered his face down nearly to the floor, and pressed his lips to the top of Master's sheepskin slippers.

Above him he heard Marius let out an apoeciative groan, sending another aching throb straight down to Amadeo's neglected cock.

"There's my sweet boy, how I miss you when you're gone," Master sighed, and Amadeo laid down several more soft kisses, until a tight hand in his hair brought it to a stop. Pulled upright, he looked eagerly for Masters face, so pleased, so proud, so full of adoration as he guided his boy onto his lap as he slid down against the wall. 

Immediately Amadeo was hungry, nuzzling at Master's collar with the same eagerness with which he rutted against Master's belly. It should have been no surprise to him that Master immediately held him in check, a hand to Amadeo's chest 

"Ah ah my little cherub, I don't believe you've learned today's lesson," he chided, and while a burst of indignation blossomed in his chest, the rush of pleasure from submission had him too high. Wanting blood on his lips and friction on his cock, he only whined, and then gasped as Master's hand struck his face again. Far lighter than before, a gentle request for Amadeo's attention more than anything. He listened. He obeyed.

"That's better. You keep some dignity, Amadeo. Do you not remember we are seeing a show tonight with Louis, Lestat and your own little one? What an embarrassment if we showed up late?"

"But I hurt," Amadeo whispered, straining his hips and wanting so bad to reach down and touch himself, to leave a shameful mess between them. But he refrained, with agony, with flushed cheeks and quick breath.

Master only nodded, and tipped Amadeo's face down by his chin to kiss the cheek he'd slapped.

"I know, but you carry it beautifully, darling. Now go get yourself together, dress well. We will have a lovely time with our coven, and if you can behave yourself as my child ought to, then I shall bring you home after and make love to you till sunrise steals you from me."

"And if I disobey?"

"Then you will find yourself back on your knees with a cane."

And neither aknowledged the dribble of precum that leaked from Amadeos willing body at these words. The young immortal just bent forward, pleading for a kiss, and was rewarded with slow, chaste lips.

Neither sire nor fledgling knew the name of this dance, this mangle of desire and love and passion and hysterics and rage, but it didn't matter; they both knew all the steps.


End file.
